The Last Time I Saw Matthew
by Clair de SolCrazie
Summary: The last time I saw Matthew was 2003, July 1st...


The last time I saw Matthew was 2003, July 1st.

I regret ignoring him. I really, _really _regret ignoring him. Even when we made eye contact, even after we stared at each other for who knows how long, all I did was look away and saunter out of the library like I was never there. I didn't say hello. We never got to say goodbye. And I really wish I said goodbye.

Matthew, you little fucker. I'm so angry, and I'm not even angry at you. I'm just angry. I'm angry, and I know why I'm angry. Instead of feeling sadness, I made it into anger. It's your fault, you dick, you always told me to not let sadness take over. You told me to turn it into something else. And I know I'm not angry at you, but I'm trying to tell myself I am. And I know that you didn't mean to turn all sadness I had into anger, and that you meant that you wanted me to look at the bright side of things. It was your own awkward way of saying it. I know that. I know you. You damn awkward geek.

I never get a good night's sleep anymore. He keeps calling our number, you know. Arthur. He wants to hear you and I telling the caller that we aren't in the apartment at that moment. I never answer it, but it drives me insane that we got one of those shitty home phones that actually let's the message be heard on the other side, because I can hear your voice too. And I can hear Arthur's voice sobbing on the other side. And I can hear those awful nothings that Francis whispers to Arthur. And I can hear the 70s records in the background. I hear everything. And it drives me insane to the point where I can't go to bed afterwards.

It's been too much to bear. I honestly couldn't take it any more. I stained our bathroom's sink with red. I feel sorry, but at the same time I don't. I feel like I shouldn't feel sorry, but I also should be. See what you've done to me? I'm a mess, Matthew. I'm a bloody mess. And I'm not saying that like I'm British. I'm literally a _bloody fucking mess. _Yeah. It got so hard, I resorted to those lame, disgusting excuses for "escape." I know that if you were here, you would be shaking your head at how much of an idiot I am. I know I'm an idiot. But I used to be _your_ idiot. What happened to those days?

Yeah... What happened?

...

Matthew, if you ever read this...

Or if you ever hear me quietly talking to myself about this shit...

I just want you to know that I love you. And Arthur loves you. And Francis loves you. And so does Gilbert, Roderich, Yao, Kiku, Feliciano, Lovino, Antonio... We all love you. And we all remember every moment we had together.

Even I remember every moment. You and I both know that's a lot to remember. But I remember all of it. Trust me, I really do. And sad part is, I remember the bad part as well.

I never did tell you how I felt. I never did get to tell you that I wasn't angry with you at all. I was just... I was shocked. Overwhelmed. I didn't even believe you at first. I tried to laugh it off, but you shook your head, almost like you were disappointed in me, and all negativity pressed down at my heart. Then I started to have flashbacks. Memories of when we sang together, carefree and cheerful, when I played the air guitar as you killed it with your imaginary keyboard, and we sang all your favorite cheesy Canadian songs. It was wonderful. And the moment realization hit me, when I knew we would no longer be able to live those moments any more, I turned my sadness into anger. I yelled, threw shit, broke and tore apart books and glass antiques. You merely stood there and watched, like you were waiting for me to calm down so you could add your word in. But I didn't let you. I stormed out of that room, and I didn't talk with you for a long time.

Then I lost my chance to speak with you for the last time.

Damnit. Tears. I don't do this mushy stuff...

God damnit Matthew. I miss you. I really fucking miss you. I know you're not here with me. I know you're not here at all. You're somewhere else, far away, where I can't reach you. I won't be able to reach you for a long time.

...

I hope you know that all of that old music of yours still lives on in this family. And I hope you saw what we did for you. We played your Beatles record, the one that we all loved. You know, the one that we all sang loudly to in totally awful voices? During Christmas and Birthdays?

Yeah.

Your music lives on in our hearts Matthew.

I'm sorry.

Please be a dream...


End file.
